Romance in Crimson
by Mianne
Summary: When Holmes is called to uncover one of the most baffling cases he's ever encountered, he wasn't counting on solving the greatest mystery of them all: Love. A fluffy adventure story, please R
1. Introduction in Blue

Holmes sat in his chair, staring with blank, gray eyes into the fireplace. His tall, wiry frame was motionless, as he thought with a rapid fire what the answer could possibly be. The case had been on his mind for a day now, which was a considerable amount of time, considering how long it usually took him. What was the missing piece? His body was drained of all motion as he attempted to still his rapidly flowing thoughts. What was it...?  
"I say, Holmes," said Watson, bustling into the room and sitting his weight down on one of the chairs. "You've been sitting there all day! Come on down and smell the fresh air. It's beautiful outside..."  
Holmes sat up, his eyes immediately awake and alert. "Smell? Did you say smell? Aha, you've done it again, Watson! How stupid I was to ignore that!"  
With a sudden energy and vigor, he paced over to the side table, where he quickly scribbled down something almost illegible. "Give this to the urchin waiting in the hall, will you, Watson?" He asked airily. "Oh, and a large brandy would also be in order."  
Watson hurriedly gave the note to the page, and strode back into the room, to find Holmes laughing hysterically on the couch.  
"Good God, man, what is it?" Demanded the doctor, rushing over. "You're not ill?"  
"Only my logic, it appears. That was a wire to Lestrade. He'll find the necessary details to lead to the arrest of one Mr. Campbell."  
"No!" Gasped Watson. "Was it really he?"  
"Yes, it appears so. He couldn't have smelled the smoke that led to his wife's death from the parlor. They had made it airtight; soundproof, to ensure that his musical frenzies would not disturb the rest of the household. He lied about his whereabouts, the scoundrel, and set the fire himself. Therefore, he was not too late to save his wife, but too late to save his own hide from the law!"  
"Brilliant!" Congratulated Watson. "Absolutely brilliant!"  
Holmes rested down on the couch, weary from his mental exhaustion.  
"Thank you, my dear Watson. And you yourself had quite a strong hand in it, yourself? After all, you were the one who suggested it in the first place!"  
"I did?" said a flustered Watson.  
"Of course! Now, do be a gentlemen and pass me that brandy flask and my violin, please?"  
Watson obliged, and in a frenzy of passion, Holmes took to his instrument in a beautiful, minor improvisation. Watson listened peacefully, and picked up the paper.  
"Well, well, this is most unfortunate," he said languidly. "This young woman's father was murdered while working at the docks. Really, at such a young age to lose her only remaining parent."  
Holmes paused on one trilling note. "What? Who is it?"  
"Young Elizabeth Nobleton," continued Watson, disinterested. "I wonder what the outcome was for the latest boxing match."  
"Nobleton, Nobleton, Nobleton," murmured Holmes. "Would you kindly pass me over my encyclopedia?"  
Watson obliged, and Holmes thumbed over to the "N" section. "Ah, here it is.  
"_Nobleton, Henry. Born in England, raised in America. Was presumed to be dead on the passage back, but showed up ten years later. A rich oil baron, he is a widower currently living in Westchester, with his young daughter, Elizabeth_."  
Holmes took out a quill and silently scratched out certain sections. He wrote in the margin, "Presumed dead."  
Watson looked over. "Presumed dead?"  
"He disappeared for ten years, who's to say he wouldn't do it again?"  
Watson chuckled. "Well, I would hate to leave behind such a lovely daughter," he said wryly, passing the paper over to his cohort.  
"Watson, you can't believe that a simple girl could have power over a man, do you? In fact, I believe..." He trailed off as he looked at her picture.  
"Believe what?" Inquired Watson politely.  
Holmes was looking at the picture the way a scientist would examine his findings. Right on the front cover was the girl's portrait. She had long, smooth hair that appeared to be blonde (it was in black and white), with small, pouty lips and barely visible eyebrows. But what was most astounding were the haunting, dark eyes that stared out from the picture, ones that held immeasurable sadness. She held herself proud and tall, but seemed to be under a huge burden.  
"Holmes? Holmes!"  
"Hmm? What?" He said, waking himself up. He shook himself, and returned to the present. "Yes, that will be Lestrade coming up now."  
"How did you know?" Asked Watson, dumbfounded.  
"Behind you, Watson, there is a metal tray that appears to be for decoration, but I've positioned it to look directly out the window. As well, Lestrade has that kah-thump, kah-thump pattern whenever he descends out humble staircase."  
Soon enough, there was a knock on the door, and Lestrade, red faced and panting, sat down in a chair.  
"Bad business, Holmes, bad business," he moaned. "The oil baron dies without a will, and others are claiming his fortune. And the young lady...Elizabeth! That's her name; she's in a state of shock. We're going to need some of your skill on this one."  
Holmes was already moving, with the energy he gained when he was presented with an interesting case. "I'm on my way, Lestrade. By the way, was it Campbell?"  
Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "Confessed everything. How did you know?"  
Holmes' smile was wry. "It was just a matter of getting on the right scent. Are you ready Watson?"  
And soon, they were out the door. 


	2. Elementary

"Is this a case worth chronicling, then Holmes?" panted Watson, as they continued to stride down the London streets at a rapid pace.  
"Now you see, Watson, all events of humankind are worth remembering, but it is best not to allow my intuition to take me just yet."  
"Does that mean you have a feeling about this one?"  
Holmes waved that idea away with an elegant gesture. "My dear Watson, the human emotion is a tricky, spiteful thing. It is really more of an obstacle than a privilege, as it can blind you to the most obvious of logistical solutions. Remember that always. But I believe that this case holds specific details that may prove to lead to a very interesting conclusion."  
"Holmes, don't you think it might be prudent to take a hansom?" begged Watson. "And how do you believe that this case is different from any other?"  
Holmes gave his infuriating small smile. "Aha, you see, Watson? You have allowed yourself to be blinded, probably by your anticipation to unravel this case. First, this man is one of the richest in the world. He is sure to be well guarded, and he would probably invest in some bodyguards. Second, what the devil was he doing gadding about on a dock? Men that rich usually waste away indoors, and if he were awaiting a shipment, certainly a clerk could have handled that low duty. Third, you are forgetting that he has already disappeared for ten years. Where was he during these ten years? No one knows. All that we know is that he shows up in England, rich as a King, and then marries and has two children."  
"Two children?" Blustered Watson, as a hansom slowed and they got inside. "I only remember Elizabeth!"  
The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched. "In the picture on the newspaper, the young lady had a locket around her neck. I noticed the inscription: Henry, Madeleine, Elizabeth & James. Logically, as it also referred to the girl as Elizabeth Nobleton, her maiden name, James must only be her brother."  
Watson shook his head. "I don't know how you do it."  
"Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary."  
They rode in silence for the rest of the journey. 


	3. Elizabeth

When the hansom dropped the pair off in front of the Nobleton Estate, Watson drew in a gasp.  
"Ye Gods, this place is magnificent!" He breathed.  
Tall, white columns of Alabaster covered the large double doors, and gardens drew up towards the front of the house, filling the picture with beautiful fountains and topiary. The eerie thing, however, was that usually a place like this was filled with life. While the sun shone everywhere else in London, it was empty and gloomy there, with no sign of servants, maids, or gardeners. It was just...empty.  
"Hmm," said Holmes. "But the gardener would do well to replace his boot soles. He has had a bad run in with a dog."  
Watson was about to demand how he achieved his reasoning, when Holmes pointed gracefully to the ground, where the footprints lay. It was damp, but yet there was no print on the bottom. It was worn so much that you couldn't even make out its individual print any more. On the bottom were subtle marks that appeared to be where he deduced the idea of a dog.  
The two companions continued in silence up to the house, where a maid flung the door open.  
"Sorry, gentleman, the mistress is in no mood for visitors. Come again tomorrow."  
She slammed the door curtly. Holmes lifted up a bony fist, made firm by his years of boxing, and knocked hard.  
The maid opened the door again. "I thought I told you..." she began.  
"Madam, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant, Dr. Watson. We're with Scotland Yard, and we were hoping that..."  
"Sherlock Holmes?" the woman breathed. "I've heard of your endeavors, I won't pretend that I haven't, but the young Mistress remains firm. She won't see anyone..."  
"Let them in, Julie," said a low, sorrowful voice from the back of the house. "Heaven knows that it will be easier to listen to them explain why they are here than listening to you argue with them all day."  
The maid gave them both a reproachful look. "Now you've done it," she muttered. "She'll be in a right mood all day."  
They were lead into a sunny, saffron painted room with white furniture, and bouquets of daisies and roses everywhere, along with notes of condolence. The fireplace was large and filled with a basket and blossoms instead of wood, as it was in the peak of summer.  
"I won't pretend to not know why you are here, gentlemen," said the voice again, this time, over from the window, where a figure was perched on the ledge. The curtains fluttered around peacefully, concealing her appearance. "You want to know more about my father, more about me, and more about his murder. You want to know if there is possibly anyone else who could have been involved, and you want me to relive the moments I found out he died over so that you can get the facts straight. Is that right?"  
Watson felt a pang of guilt hit him, but Holmes was immune. Immediately, he turned on the charm that he used when trying to convince a stubborn woman to see his way. "Forgive me, dearest madam, for intruding in upon your household in a moment of fear, solitude, and pain. Might I ask if your brother is around?"  
The voice gave a small, mirthless laugh, and Holmes felt something rise up against the back of his neck. "Have you been investigating me, Mr. Holmes? Or have you and Dr. Watson been analyzing my portrait, or even the minimal actions I have made? Well I can tell you, Mr. Holmes, that my brother has died as well, and now I am alone. Are you satisfied?"  
The intended effect Holmes wanted to give was one of omniscience. Now, he was stunned at how coolly she had answered his question.  
"Madam," he tried again, still persistent.  
"Look," she said, dismounting from the window and allowing both men to see her full on for the first time. She was very tall; only a few inches below Holmes' huge frame. Her long, blonde hair was hanging loose around her delicate featured face, and the eyes were dark and imploring. She wore a simple gown of white, floating material that was perfect for the warm summer weather. She was not a tremendous beauty, but she could easily be described as pretty and subtle. However, her spirit penetrated this, and she was filled with strength and sadness.  
"If I tell you everything, will you promise to complete your investigation, then go and leave me in peace?"  
Holmes was struck not by the beauty of this strange creature, but by her strength and boldness. This was a woman of extraordinary capability, and of great integrity.  
"Yes, I promise," even though for some strange reason, he didn't want to. He stifled this, and continued to be the ruthless, mind-machine that he was.  
She sighed, and took a seat in a small armchair, and gestured for them to sit opposite her on the couch. They obliged.  
"Julie?" She called gently.  
"Yes, madam?" She appeared in the doorway.  
"I told you, it's Elizabeth now, and are there any refreshments left over from what the neighbors sent?"  
"I believe so, ma...Elizabeth."  
"Would you be a dear and fetch some? I would help, but I am a little tied up at the moment."  
Julie rolled her eyes. "It would have been a lot easier with a bit more help..."  
Watson sprang up, but Elizabeth stopped him. "Just let her go. She's actually referring to the fact that I gave all the others the week off. Julie offered to stay for companionship, and I've been most grateful. She doesn't think that I should have give them all the week off."  
She composed herself, and folded her hands in her lap.  
"Now, gentlemen, what is it you require of me?"  
Holmes was once again struck by the fact that this was a woman of profound bravery. "First of all, I'd like to know about your father." 


	4. The Nobletons

For those of you who are reading my other works, I DO NOT WRITE MARY SUES! This is not a Mary Sue story by any means, and I guarantee you, this romance will be slow and beautiful. REST ASSURED!

"My Father was not a kind man by any means. Often, he would storm back home drunker than an intoxicated rat, and yell at my mother, beat my brother into submission. However, when he was sober, he was much more good- tempered, and you could see the reason that my mother married him.  
"You must understand, Mr. Holmes, that I am not at all sad to lose my Father as a person. But it is a very lonely day when you realize that you no longer have a Father figure in your life, and that you are now completely alone."  
She bowed her head, and exhaled sharply. "The rest of my family lives in America. It is a very isolated feeling that overtakes you, you know..."  
She shook herself, and Julie came in with tea and small sugar cakes.  
"Gifts of condolence from the neighbors," explained Elizabeth. "They seem to feel as though I can't manage on my own." She took a bite from the nearest pink frosted one, and gave a small smile. Holmes permitted himself one, while Watson helped himself to three.  
"My wife won't be happy," he chuckled, as he delved into one.  
Elizabeth smiled politely. "You are married?"  
"For three beautiful years now," said Watson happily.  
"Any children?"  
Watson smiled jovially. "Well, there's plenty of room for that. But as it is, she feels as though my field is a little too dangerous for children at the moment. I have a bit of a black mark against me tagging around with this fellow."  
Holmes remained impassive, analyzing her face. Yes, it was true; she was lovely, but again, not a beauty of any means. Her face was pale and had small wrinkles forming in the top of her forehead from excessive reading, which proved that she was very learned. She was a horseback rider, as seen from the rough calluses at the exact position where the reins were held. But it was the eyes that made him pause the most. While they were focused on her tea, he saw the sadness and weight that lingered inside them.  
Elizabeth finished her cake, with a bit of pink frosting lurking off one side of her mouth. "Now, as I was saying..." That frosting immeasurably distracted Holmes, so he gave a little "Ahem!"  
He mimicked brushing away the crumbs, and Elizabeth paused. She lifted a finger up to her mouth and took it away, allowing herself to laugh again.  
"Not quite the civilized young heiress most expect, eh?" she managed in between laughs, sucking the remaining icing off her thumb.  
Holmes gave a smile; a genuine smile, one that Watson noted.  
"As I was saying, my father refused to speak of his childhood. All we knew was that he grew up in Texas, and struck rich with oil. He was returning back home to England when his ship was lost in a storm, and was never found. Ten years later, he was back in England. He refused to tell us any of this, and threatened to beat us if we asked, so the subject was always closed.  
"Oh, but he did love my mother. She was really beautiful, my mother. I received more of my father's looks, but my mother was so graceful. He wooed her incessantly when he returned, and I can honestly say that his money didn't matter to her. She fell in love too, and they were mutually happy. Unfortunately, while her love continued to bloom, his wilted, and we were plunged into unhappiness.  
"My brother longed for my father's approval, but sadly, he was never granted it. He grew to be a fine scholar, schooled in the sciences, particularly chemistry, and specialized in botany and other refined studies. It was truly tragic, watching him slowly destroy himself as he desperately attempted to catch Father's attention. I begged him to reconsider, to not care about his opinion, but James was set. The need for Father's approval had become an addiction for him, one he could not live without.  
"And it is true: He couldn't live without it. One night, after being accepted as a University Scholar in Oxford, he brought home this exceptional news. Father dismissed it, and told him that he would never make anything of himself. Knowledge was almost as useless as James himself, he said, before turning back to his work.  
"Something inside James snapped, and he screamed that Father would regret not acknowledging him as a son. Later, we found his suicide note, telling us that he was going to miss us and he loved us, and he was sad that he was never loved back. He plunged himself into the river, and we never saw him again."  
She took a deep breath, her bosom heaving. "You must know that I loved my brother very much. His death was a great shock to us all, especially mother. Later, she could no longer feel any form of happiness, and she became so thin and ill that she passed on. From then on, it has only been my Father and I, and rarely was there ever a word spoken between us. We have haunted each other's presence for the past three years, and it hasn't been painful, really. Just...non-existing.  
"Lately, however, he has been very frightened. Several times in the night, he has taken up out of his bed, ran down the stairs, and stare relentlessly out the window. One evening, I was composing to a dear friend, and I saw him come running down. The next evening, I remained awake only to witness the phenomenon again, watching as his shadow passed by my door. I must admit, Mr. Holmes, that this behavior frightened me, but with time, I grew accustomed to it. And we never mentioned it. Speaking was a taboo in this household, and it feels, forgive my words, as though a burden has been lifted, as though my poor father has finally been given some peace."  
"Then one morning, during my daily ride, I was intercepted and told of my father's death. Since then, his fortune has been on everyone's lips. It is said that it is over one million pounds, but he left no will. Many are claiming it as kinsmen of his from America, and others, such as business partners, are saying he gave them his word that he would include him in his will. Yet nothing has been found."  
She sighed, and shook her head. "Even though it is said my father's fortune is vast (he never discussed it with us), this house was never fully mortgaged. If I do not receive the money, then I will be turned out onto the streets. This prospect frightens me, and I know that his business partners would never think twice about removing me, as they could use this area for offices."  
Her hands clenched together. "I must know who is responsible for this, Mr. Holmes! I am desperate! I am sure that he had the will on his person, for he carried all things of value with him. One was an ancient brass key, and the other was a paper. I'm almost positive that paper is the will! Sadly, when he disappeared..."  
She stood. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have funeral arrangements to attend to. You have my full leave to wander around the grounds, wherever you want, save my chambers. That I will not permit. I bid you a good morning, and wish you luck on your search."  
She bowed, and left the room, while Julie came in to clean up the remainder of their tea. "I told you! Now she'll be in a quiet, pensive mood, and it'll mean hell for me."  
Holmes sighed. "I apologize madam. We did not mean to intrude." He stood, his cold gray eyes calculating. "Now let's see if we can make something of this case."  
"I agree," said Watson. "After, perhaps, one more cake?"


End file.
